Running
by RobotMuse
Summary: Horribly out of character yaoi! Hurray! TornxErol -- Torn tries to deal with Erol's death. CommentsReveiws welcome, flames are not. Story fixed! So it should read easier now


_You're running again._  
  
The voice nagged him. He ignored it, like always. Besides, he wasn't running; simply avoiding the inevitable truth.  
  
_You're always running._  
  
That wasn't true. He stopped to catch his breath every one in a while. But, somehow, the rest just made him more tired. He grew dizzy when he stopped; the oxygen never seemed to make it to his brain. He grew numb when he stopped; his body longed from the heat of motion. He grew sick when he stopped; the adrenaline withdrawal was painful. He could stand stopping. It was painful when he stopped, too painful to bare.  
  
So, he just started to run again. He forgot about everything he had to do, everything that needed his attention, and just ran. It was his medicine, his cure all, his drug, his addiction.  
  
_You can't run forever_  
  
Maybe he couldn't, but he could try. He had been coming down to the stadium from months now. He always rented the same Zoomer -- number twelve, since eleven had been blown up. He took it down to the track, and just drove, as fast as the thing would let him. It worked too kill the pain. But each time, the pain grew stronger and stronger; the adrenaline was loosing its effect. He would pay any reward to the man who made a faster Zoomer.  
  
_It'll still be there, no matter how fast you go._  
  
He revved the engine, draining out the voice. He had never been to fond of the races, no, but he had had a sudden change of heart.  
  
It wasn't only his love of speed that had changed that day.  
  
They had been in the Training Academy together -- best friends, roommates. _He_ was the scapegoat for the other trainees there. They didn't see _him_ as a human being. So many times they had left _him_ there bleeding that he lost count. _He_ had always been the underdog. Even _his_ parents didn't care. That's why _he_ ended up in the Academy in the first place.  
  
They had met there, wide-eyed and innocent. That would change soon enough. The training was hard, and the older students harder. He personally had no problems, but he couldn't remember a day when he wasn't tending to his roommates knew cuts and bruises.  
  
"Why?" _he_ asked on day while getting his latest batch of scrapes cleaned.  
  
"Why what?" he replied, putting ointment on an opening above _his_ eyebrow.  
  
"Why do you bother? No one else does," _He_ had given up on looking him in the eyes, "You're the only one that's ever looked at me twice."  
  
He blinked, "I believe everyone is worthwhile,"  
  
_He_ smiled. That was the first he had ever seen _him_ smile, "Thank you," _he_ said quietly. He nodded.  
  
_He_ made _himself_ sick just to get out of going to class and training. _He_ didn't belong there, we both knew that. There was no backing out once you signed up, though. That's how Praxis worked; that's how so many young and unready men and women had died -- not in fights against the Metal Heads, but in training to fight the beasts.  
  
He missed two days of classes and training just to make sure _he_ got better from _his_ self-brought sickness. He brought _him_ soup, cleaned the wounds _he_ had gotten the day prior, and just talked to _him_, probably something _he_ needed the most.  
  
_He_ talked about his early years. They, like _his_ current ones, were unpleasant. _His_ father had been Commander of the Guard in his prime. Now he was simply a drunkard with a bad temper. _His_ mother did care; not about herself, her life, her family, nor her son's fate. They sent _him_ to the Academy against his will without a word of good luck. The holidays were coming up, but _he_ wouldn't return home, even if they kicked _him_ out of the dorm.  
  
"You can always come spend them with me," he had said jokingly. _He_ hadn't taken it as such.  
  
"That'd be nice..." _he_ smiled, not looking him in the eyes again. Tears began to roll down _his_ cheeks.  
  
"Hey..." he went over to _him_. He rubbed _his_ back, like his mother had when he was a child -- it always made him feel better -- "It's all right. I'll make sure no one hurts you again, okay?"  
  
As he looked back on it now, it was a wonder that he hadn't noticed it before.  
  
_He_ wrapped _his_ arms around his waist. _He_ sobbed _himself_ to sleep.  
  
Racing had always been an escape for _him_ . It was the one thing _he_ had been good at. Everyday after training, _he_ rented a Zoomer -- _he_ didn't have enough money for _his_ own -- and drove, sometimes hours at a time. Afterward, _his_ face and hair were windblown and hardly presentable, but _he_ was smiling.  
  
He came to watch one day. He was amazed at how this boy, who had about as much grace in his movements as a certain Ottsel, could handle the curves of the track. _He_ was a fish in water. He went down onto the track to meet _him_. _He_ seemed surprised to find someone watching _him_. He noticed tears in _his_ eyes. Whether they were from the winds or troubled thoughts, he couldn't tell.   
  
He bought _him_ the mask because of those tears. As he looked at the wind whipped face of his roommate and the broken down Zoomer _he_ was forced to ride, he thought it was the least he could do. From what he had hear, the boy hadn't gotten any presents in _his_ life. _He_ didn't seem to know what to do with the mask when _he_ got it, but soon in sank in that it was _his_ to keep, and _he_ smiled wide.  
  
Now, despite all the setbacks, both boys excelled in the Academy. Soon they were over with training and out protecting the city. They flew through the ranks. He became Commander, and his old friend became a Captain.  
  
It stayed that way for years, until the day they retreated.  
  
The battle had been long. Both sides lost so many. The city was being destroyed in the process. Praxis called for a retreat, leaving Guard and citizen alike for the Metal Heads.  
  
The troops had to drag him off the battle field, not because he was injured, but because he refused to leave. He wanted to fight. He couldn't just leave those people there.  
  
He couldn't, but Praxis could.  
  
He resigned that day. He tore off the armband that designated him as Commander and walked out.  
  
"You can't do this," _he_ sighed in disbelief. He shoved _him_ to the ground, proving that he could. He stepped over the Guard and stepped into another world -- one that fought against the Baron, not for.  
  
_He_ stayed on the Guard and soon replaced him has Commander. Their paths crossed many times in the years to follow, though their past was nonexistent.  
  
_Why do you care now? You didn't care then._  
  
He didn't know. Why _did_ it matter? The day he resigned from the Guard, he resigned from any kind of relationship with _him_. None of it mattered. It had all gone up in cloud of smoke and Eco.  
  
_Then why do you run?_  
  
Damn it, he didn't know. He didn't know anything anymore. He couldn't tell night from day, black from white, love from pain. Everything was just a blur of tears and blood. He was lost.  
  
Running just made it better. Everything was going too fast for any of it to sink in. he didn't want it to sink it. He wanted to hold on to the past, like he should have so many years ago. But it slipped through his fingers, _he_ slipped through his fingures. These memories evaporated when he stopped. They were gone.  
  
_He_ was gone.  
  
The turn was sudden. He didn't see it through his tears. He lost control of the Zoomer, and slammed into the wall.  
  
_That's what happens when you run for too long; you crash._  
  
Torn opened his eyes, vision fuzzy. A figure stood above him.  
  
"I'm sorry," he sobbed, "I couldn't protect you."  
  
The figure smiled.  
  
_No, you can't ever protect someone himself._  
  
"I love you, Erol..."  
  
The figure nodded knowingly.  
  
_Then stop running_


End file.
